


Designer Unknown

by ScriptedScarlet



Category: One Piece
Genre: Fashion & Couture, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Old Ladies Sewing Things, References to Canon, Sewing, Slice of Life, multiple timeframes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23319427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptedScarlet/pseuds/ScriptedScarlet
Summary: Pirates and Marines alike are all out to make a statement on the seas, and their fashion choices say it all. But just where do those heavy coats, fancy pants, and ridiculous getups come from? How do Zoans not rip apart their clothes? Who coordinates all of CP9's ensembles? Where does one possibly buy a coat of thousands of pink feathers? And just where does Trafalgar Law commission all those customized outfits of his?A secretive designer in Saobody has been sewing for the biggest names on the seas for decades. Her work has been seen in every newspaper on both pirates and Marines alike.Oneshot. Slice of life. Takes places across multiple timeframes/non-linear.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 107





	Designer Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written a One Piece OC, but there is a first time for everything! 
> 
> This piece was originally for a zine. Unfortunately, the status of the zine has been unknown for quite a long time now (many artists have gone rogue posting their work)...so I indicated that I was going to post my work and didn't get anyone telling me that I couldn't do so.  
> My original draft was significantly longer, however I was required to adhere to a 2.5k word count, so in the spirit of posting the 'finished product' I have decided to post it as is rather than 'putting it back together.' 
> 
> This is not really a plot heavy story as much as a series of slice of life encounters of people and clothes. Enjoy!

If you have ever traversed the Grand Line, braved the New World, or even just glanced across the wanted posters hung up at your local tavern, you may notice a thing or two.

Piracy is _vogue_.

Those who find their faces on the wrong side of a government wanted poster are usually out to make a statement, of sorts.

Piracy is not for the dull, the drab. Piracy is not for those looking to blend in. 

Few take to sea in nothing but tatters and hand-me-downs. Those out to make a name for themselves look to stand out from the hordes of sea rats. Bright dyed silks, scarves, sparkling jewels, and of course the coats: long and swaying in the wind, with gold braid, mother of pearl buttons and braided epaulettes. (Coats are to be worn on the shoulders, of course.) 

There is a certain level of celebrity that comes with piracy, and those who can afford it pony up the cash to look the part. 

Ask who makes the finest clothes of the New World, and most would tell you it’s Papugg, the genius designer behind the trendy _Crimin_ brand, frequently worn by infamous Cat Burglar Nami.

But ask the starfish his own opinion on seaworthy styles?

“Heh, I’m small potatoes compared to Vivian von Valentine,” Papugg grins. “Sure, they’re all wearing Crimin on the runways, but out at sea? The big names that really sell papers? Pirates? Heroes? They’re wearing Val’s.”

In a merchant port off Saobody, for those who know where to find her, Vivian von Valentine’s clothing is the Galley-La of seafaring fashion. She has measured, stitched and sewn for some of the greatest names on the seas today.

The rich, wine-colored brocade of Dracule Mihawk’s coat? Or perhaps the silken gowns of ruby and violet in which Empress Boa Hancock adorns herself? That quaint little dress worn to Big Mom’s tea party by Stussy, with the fine netting on the hat? Or the dark coats to which Trafalgar Law is so very partial, emblazoned with his personal jolly roger? 

Vivian’s.

There are whispers even still, that Vivian is capable of crafting a coat made of thousands of pink feathers, that never once shed on the battlefield. 

Vivian von Valentine is forty-fifity-sixty-something years old? Nobody knows for sure. Tall and wiry, with dotted scars up her hands from one too many pinpricks, her silvery hair is tied up with a different ribbon each day and a pair of jeweled hairsticks. She wears long frocks in multi-colored batiks, and is always staunchly corseted. 

“For posture,” she says. “Now darling, don’t flinch, it’s just the inseam” as Iceburg winces while she measures up his new dress pants. 

“Hey Viv!” calls her assistant Jasper. “Front page again!” 

You will not find Vivian’s clothes in fashion magazines or runways. 

But you have seen her clothes: on the front page of the news. 

She is never credited.

_SLAUGHTER IN KOHONA: CATARINA DEVON STILL AT LARGE_

“Oh lovely,” says Vivian. “I was happy to sew for her again when she broke out. Glad I talked her into bloomers to accommodate those new tails of hers.” 

Vivian keeps at least three measuring tapes around her neck, with an additional two at her belt. Her sewing belt contains snips, shears, scissors, pins, and an assortment of thread. She accentuates her sentences with a well-placed _“darling”_ or _“love_ ” to steer clients to a more fitting color for their complexion, or not wince over her pin placement.

“Maroon, against your hair?” she coos to Perona. “No love, you’ll look like a raspberry strudel. How about a lavender?” 

“Viv, can you grab a head measurement?” calls Jasper, her arms full of silken white roses and black velvet. 

“Are those for my hat?” squeaks Perona, floating off the ground with glee. “Sooooo cute!!”

Vivian’s two assistants, (or partners in crime, as some would call them), accompany her in the trade. Jasper is tall and curvy with fiery red hair and a knack for color and bold dyes. Her specialty is hats and shoes

Moriarty, bespectacled and fiercely calculative; he almost doesn’t need the measuring tape around his neck. He can eyeball a hips/waist/bust and the fabric needed in seconds. 

“But for Zoans we take multiple measurements,” he says, stretching the tape down the length of Drake’s tail. 

“Mind your head, darling, I just had the roof redone,” says Vivian, while Drake ducks to keep from transforming through the ceiling. 

She caters to pirate and Marine alike. And like Galley-la, the World Government is willing to turn a blind eye to her dealings with rogues and scoundrels for the quality of her work. 

After all, a millimeter of fabric could be the difference between refined and intimidating, or an embarrassing mishap of devil fruit powers gone wrong.

“Can’t have naked leopards running about, now can we?” mutters Vivian through a mouthful of pins, taking Rob Lucci’s thigh measurements. “That’s just not decent now. Looks like we’re at 36 inches human thigh, and 56 inches leopard thigh. I’ll leave room for the tail too. And you wanted this in white?”

“You’re a wonder, Viv,” Rob Lucci practically purrs, a rare smile on his face. Hattori is being fed treats by Jasper while Morarity loops a measuring tape around the pigeon. 

“I know, darling. Now then Kaku, lets see what we can do about your _neck…_ ” 

* * *

There are whispers among jealous tailors and those who’ve run afoul of Vivian that her uncanny talent for fabric and thread is due to devil fruit powers. 

“Nonsense,” says Jasper, looking up from a fur-trimmed jacket and boots. “Vivian doesn’t have some demon’s curse. The quality of her work speaks to her talent and nothing else.”

Morarity holds up the jacket. “Can you believe the World Government has been publishing all that nonsense about Betty? They say she runs around battlefields half-naked, and we’ve done nothing but sew her pants and jackets!”

Vivian waves a hand. “Pah! Just another way the press won’t credit my art. I’d _never_ send someone off to battle with their vitals exposed.” 

Like Galley-la, Vivian is no stranger to dealing with crooks and thieves. But like Galley-la’s shipbuilders, she is more than capable of holding her own when ornery sea rats disrespect _the craft._

“Boss, I’m telling ya, you don’t mess with Viv,” says Sarquiss, walking up to the shop.

“Ya think I’m afraid of some old lady?” snaps Bellamy. “What’s she gonna do, throw scissors at me? She’s gonna make me what I want and I ain’t payin’ a dime.”

Bellamy swaggers in, unholstering a pistol. 

“Do you have an appointment?” says Vivian, looking unimpressed. 

“Alright, listen lady,” Bellamy begins. “You-”

Bellamy drops to the floor, his body rigid. A sewing pin juts from the side of his neck, two more at his wrist and side.

“Boss!” yells Sarquiss, before he too plummets to the ground, stiff as an ironing board, with a pin to the wrist and ankle.

“The...hell,” Bellamy gasps, rigid as corset boning. “Is this seastone?”

“You don’t need seastone to hit pressure points,” says Vivian, fingering her pins. “Now, lucky for you, my last appointment had to cancel due to ending up in Marine custody.”

“A shame,” says Moriarty. “I spent all night coating that fur so it wouldn’t get sand in it.”

“Something about trying to take over Alabasta,”

“Made front page again, Viv,” grins Jasper. 

“Yes, and I wasn’t credited. Now then darling, shall we start with measurements?”

“Can I stand up?” asks Bellamy. 

“No.”

Morairty bends over Bellamy, measuring tape in hand.

“Oi, oi! What the hell are you doing down there?!” 

“Getting your inseam measurement.”

* * *

Pirates and Marines both adhere to a dress code of sorts, but they are a competitive bunch. When Basil Hawkins sported those checkered trousers designed by Vivian, Bartolemeo just _had_ to order a pair for himself to go with his burgundy, fur-trimmed coat. 

“...the jolly roger on the back,” the note read. “And a pocket on the inside where I can keep a photo of Luffy-san!”

“Feh, I’m surprised he’s not asking me to outfit his entire crew with replica strawhats,” says Vivian, jotting down notes.

“Really, Straw Hat Luffy ought to be coming in here,” says Moriarity, stiffly, looking up from hand-stitching a pair of velvet swans. “That boy’s been running amok for years, and wearing what? An old vest? You don’t challenge the World Government in an old hat and hand-me-down trousers. _Hardly_ a statement. ”

“Is that the order from Impel Down?” says Jasper, peering at the swans. “Can’t imagine who in there is wearing _swans_. And I thought outfitting Sadi was outrageous.” 

“Oh I know who that’s for,” chuckles Vivian, rummaging through her ledger of former clients. “I’ve made a coat like that before. Glad he’s doing well in there. I’ve always had a hunch things weren’t as they seemed in that hellhole.”

“Why’s that Viv?” asks Moriarty, threading pearly embroidery floss.

Vivian chuckles into her coffee. “Because for years I continued to take orders for Emporio Ivankov long after she was arrested! Kept sending me mail from Impel Down somehow. Fishnets. Latex. Fur. More fishnets. Lord, you’d think I was outfitting an entire burlesque show! Couldn’t have _all_ been for Sadi!”

* * *

Customers who couldn’t make it all the way to Vivian’s shop usually mailed in their measurements with a description of what they wanted. Vivian would take liberties, but it was not unusual for her to go years without meeting a regular client.

“Captain Alvida, at last we meet,” trills Vivian, her spindly arms wide. “Why darling,” Vivian adjusts her spectacles. “You are _not_ what I expected.”

Alvida holds her arms out sheepishly. “Alas, I ate a devil fruit with some unfortunate side effects. There is now _less_ of me.” She tosses her hair. “At least my divine beauty remains unchanged.”

“She’s so TALL!” Jasper whispers fiercely to Morairty. “She must be part Kuja!”

“As tall as Dracule Mihawk,” he breathes, rapidly calculating her impressive 6’6” stature. 

A pair of Marines stride into the shop, one lanky and blonde, the other shorter with a crop of pink hair. 

“Good afternoon,” says the pink-haired one. “We’re here to pick up a suit for Vice-Admiral Hina?”

“Right here,” says Jasper, laying it out. “A deep burgundy pantsuit with gold braid, should compliment her uniform coat nicely. Brought up the neckline too.”

“I knew that first set of measurements wasn’t right,” says Moriarty, looping measuring tape around Alvida’s waist. “Honestly, she was one wrong _‘Kimono Sleeve Cage’_ away from her melons flying out.” 

“You know Marines are too busy to come in half the time,” sighs Vivian. “She probably asked Smoker to help measure her, that buffoon.”

Alvida is peering at the pink-haired Marine. “Do I know you, child?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. “You look familiar.”

“I don’t...think so?” the boy stammers, looking confused.

“Come on,” mutters Helmeppo, pushing Coby out the door. “We can’t be in here fraternizing with harlots and pirates.” 

* * *

Vivian has a long history of returning clients, and with that comes unusual relationships.

“Doflamingo is not a client,” says Vivian, straightening her spectacles. “Doflamingo is not a customer. Doflamingo is a _collaborator.”_

Vivian has been dressing Doflamingo and his family for years, and has essentially watched many of them grow up. Outfitting them was usually a bit of a spectacle and took an entire day, but Doflamingo made it well worth her time to close shop just for them. 

After all, it was not anyone who could fashion a coat of thousands of black feathers that resisted catching fire multiple times a day. 

“Cora, we’ll match!” says Doflamingo, his trademark grin reflected in the mirror. “What do you think?”

Corazon scowls, and topples over the ironing board.

“Thank Roger I sew to withstand cannon fire,” mutters Vivian, shaking her head.

“This is boring,” says Law. 

“Law, wear this! Just like young master!” says Baby 5, holding up a bolt of bright pink tulle nearly as big as she is. 

“Watch it,” snaps Jasper, swatting Gladius’s hand away from the drawer full of brass eyelets. “Don’t touch Viv’s goods. Your jacket will have plenty of studs.” 

Dellinger was running with scissors. 

“Don’t run with sharp things my love,” coos Jora over her shoulder, while Morairty pinned lime green flounces to her dress. 

“But my teeths is sharp,” says Dellinger. Jasper had gussied up the two-year old in a turquoise skort and eyeshadow. “I want shoes.”

“Come on Dell, I’ll show you some cool ones,” says Morarity, scooping him up. 

“So Vivian,” says Diamante, towering over her. “How do you feel about sewing _steel?”_

“Feh, what do you take me for, an amateur?” she mutters through a mouthful of pins. “Trebol, darling, stop _oozing_ , I have to mark the hem line. Are we still going with teals?”

“Behehehe, it’s all just blue to me Vivian!” 

“Look Jora!” cries Dellinger, holding up a pair neon pink heels with spikes on them. “These!”

“Those are for a client in Impel Down,” laughs Japser. “But we can whip up a pair like this in his size.” 

“He’s TWO,” says Gladius. “WHY does he need murder shoes?”

The Family comes and goes. Dellinger gets taller and buys more shoes. Sugar does not get taller. Gladius demands more outlandish designs. (“They call it steampunk, in the North Blue,” says Moriarty.) 

Law does not come back, and neither does Doflamingo’s clumsy brother. 

Vivian does not ask questions.

But Law does write to Vivian, some decade or so later, and asks for a coat - fit for a warlord. A handsome black fur able to withstand any hail or storm of the New World. It took Jasper nearly a week to stain the fur with spots of vibrant sunflower yellow. 

And then Law writes again, asking for another coat. 

A hooded jacket, emblazoned with the name “Corazon.” 

The name is strikingly familiar. 

Vivian thumbs through dusty ledgers of old clients until she finds the name - along with a set of measurements and a pattern for a coat of deepest black feathers. 

“And just what are you plotting to do in this getup, Trafalgar Law?” Vivian mutters, pressing open the seams of the orange and white stripes. 

* * *

“The bride will be here in an hour for fitting, get her dress ready.”

“Supposedly Red-Haired Shanks will be attending,” muses Jasper, steaming the pearly kimono. 

“I think Chiffon and Bege was my favorite wedding,” says Moriarity. “I stayed up hours stitching that mother of pearl beading on her gown. And remember that gold pinstripe on Bege’s suit?” 

“Hey Viv,” says Jasper, tossing her the morning paper. “Front page again.”

_DRESSROSA LIBERATED: THE WORLD GOVERNMENT BEGS FOR FORGIVENESS._

_CORRUPTION OF WARLORDS AN ONGOING SCANDAL_

“Oh my, what a shame,” Vivian mutters, tracing a finger over the photograph of Doflamingo, or rather, of the pink feathered coat, spreadeagled beneath him. “My best work.”

She sighs at the photograph of torn pink feathers. 

“For once I’d like to be credited.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my girlfriend who helped me edit this ON OUR VACATION no less ("Can you write a story without Alvida for once? Please? Yes we know that she's tall.")
> 
> I don't write OCs, but Vivian has been a weird little concept of mine for awhile. As someone who cosplays and actually studied fashion for awhile, I think a lot about the creation of clothes and I find the clothing and outfits in One Piece to be something super interesting because they are all SO WEIRD. Law bought a coat that says CORAZON for Dressrosa. HE HAD TO BUY THAT SOMEWHERE. 
> 
> Vivian has been renamed in my brain multiple times, but I've always had her as this little mental image of this badass old lady armed with pins and scissors who makes everyone's clothes and the Marines don't touch her because she sews for them too. 
> 
> Thanks everyone who read this goofy little thing!


End file.
